Is This My Beautiful Life?

by Jessica Rowe

  Mr McGuire said: ‘What are we gonna do about Jessica? When should we bone her? I reckon it should be next week.’

  By Jessica, McGuire was referring to Jessica Rowe, the presenter of the Today program.

  I said: ‘Are you sure you want to get rid of her?’

  Mr Browne said: ‘She’s a laughing stock and if we keep her on air we will be the laughing stock.’

  I said, ‘Have you thought through what may happen if she goes? We went to all that trouble to get her from Ten and they copped bad publicity and now we’ll cop it. Secondly, Peter Overton will be really upset and we run the risk of losing him from the network. That might be a real problem, because he might end up at Channel 7.’

  In the wake of the affidavit being made public, I was overwhelmed by hundreds of emails, letters, notes, gifts and cards from viewers. The overnight Today producer started leaving a manila folder full of notes in my dressing room. Each morning, thanks to those generous words of support from people I had never met, I had the courage to keep smiling down the television camera.

  The pendulum had started to swing the other way, just like Jana Wendt told me it would. The media coverage had also shifted; instead of focusing on me, it was now more about the management style at Nine. In just three weeks my bargaining power had risen exponentially, from no guarantee about my job security to public declarations of support from Eddie McGuire and Jeff Browne. All because of that four letter word.

  As well, many women who I admired contacted me with words of encouragement. Among those marvellous women were Wendy Harmer, Tracy Grimshaw, Liz Hayes, Jana Wendt, Tara Brown, Melissa Doyle, Paula Joye, Natasha Stott Despoja, Patrice Newell, Kerri-Anne Kennerley and Anne Summers. I had long admired Anne and was moved by the letter she sent me. Here is some of what she wrote:

  … I have some idea of what it is like to be under fire in a very public way and I know how horrible it is. Like me, you have a loving and supportive partner and I am sure he is a tower of strength, but I also remember how much I appreciated knowing that there were others out there—especially women—who were identifying with and supporting me. Please know that I am there for you. I am sure there are many others. Stay strong …

  Apart from these fine women, there was also many wonderful men who made an effort to contact me. These blokes included US correspondent Robert Penfold, Seven News reporter Chris Reason, CNN’s Hugh Riminton, Leigh Hatcher from Sky News and Channel Nine’s Laurie Oakes. I kept the email that the late, great Peter Harvey sent me, summing up the situation in his unique style:

  Jess … the berber arabs of saudi arabia have a pretty cool saying. ‘the dogs may bark but the caravan passes on’ … which just about sums up the ill-informed drivel that people who criticise those of us in this business go on with. its just empty noise, signifying nothing … and we get on with life, with people who matter to us and whose opinion counts. so stuff ’em Jess… the others don’t matter, just dogs howling in the night. [sic]

  Those good souls who reached out to me gave me the strength to keep facing down my detractors. It helped knowing that there were people in my corner. Although my job seemed more secure, what really kept me going was a far bigger prize, my darling Milano, who I hoped was stretching and somersaulting inside of me. Each crossed-off date in my diary brought me closer to my saving grace, the photo on the wall of the IVF clinic. It was getting harder to hide my swelling bosom and pot belly behind the stretchy patterned wrap dresses that I wore on camera each morning.

  ‘You have a very photogenic baby,’ said the sonographer.

  There was our wish upon a star lying in a swirl of grey, waving her tiny arm around. The perfect little image made me laugh out loud. ‘Hello there, my darling. We can’t wait to meet you.’

  Peter and I held hands tightly as we gazed at our baby. At last we had reached the twelve-week mark, and we were busting to reveal our secret cargo to the world. Many viewers had been my lifeline during those past eight months, so I decided to share the news with them first and surprise my workmates by announcing I was pregnant on the show on 21 July 2006.

  The theme music began as we came back from a commercial break. ‘You are watching Today,’ I began, smiling widely at the camera. ‘I have got something that I’d like to share with all of you. As many of you may know, the past couple of months have been a pretty tough and challenging time for me, but what has got me through has been the support of my husband, my family and friends, and also the support of so many of you. I can’t thank you enough for all of the beautiful cards, letters and emails I’ve got from all of you.’

  As I glanced around at co-hosts Karl, Richard Wilkins, Sharyn Ghidella and Cameron Williams, they looked shocked. I think they thought I was about to announce my resignation!

  ‘Another thing that has got me through is a secret that I’ve had, and it’s something I’d love to share with you all.’

  ‘Tell us!’ said Karl.

  ‘I am three and a half months pregnant!’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Oh my god! Congratulations!’ said Richard.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I continued, still beaming. ‘I’m due at the end of January. And I cannot tell you how excited and happy I am and Peter is. We have dreamt for such a long time about having a family, and finally our dream has come true.’

  Later that week, Channel Nine launched its cricket coverage for the coming summer with a splashy party at Fox Studios. A Nine publicist met me at the door and walked me across the room to my front-row seat. I could sense the photographers and media writers watching me as we walked past Eddie, who was being interviewed by a journalist.

  ‘Hey Jess, should we give them what they’re waiting for?’ said Eddie.

  I glanced around, smiled and walked up to say hello. He gestured with his arms open, and I gave him an awkward kiss on the cheek.

  A picture of the two of us laughing was on the front page of the papers the following day. Studying the image, I knew I should have just shaken Eddie’s hand, but my nerves got the better of me. My whole life I had railed against being a nobody, not good enough. Although I was shy, I also wanted to stand out, perhaps believing that courting the spotlight would become a foil to my naturally reserved nature. Vanity, insecurity, ego and ambition had collided to give me the energy I needed to fight. Besides, I didn’t want to look hesitant in front of the photographers; the show must go on.

  And it did. Each morning I sat in my dressing room, reading my research notes while I ate muesli and held my blossoming belly. The next couple of months were the happiest of my time on Today. My rainbow-coloured wrap dresses expanded with me, and my heart expanded too when I felt the flutter of butterfly wings inside as my baby somersaulted and stretched her wings. I was humbled by the continued kindness of strangers, the hundreds of people who sent me cards, gifts, baby blankets, knitted cardigans and white-ribboned booties for my unborn baby. It was such a contrast to the hate mail I had received when I started at Nine. I had landed in a sweet patch, a snow dome of sunshine. Surely it couldn’t stay this perfect for long?

  I had decided to take four months’ maternity leave. It seemed like a reasonable amount of time to have at home with a new baby before going back to work. A close friend, who was also a television presenter, was taking a similar amount of time away from her job. Naively I told friends that having a baby wouldn’t change things much: she would fit around our lives, not become my life. My producer, who also didn’t have children yet, suggested organising a crèche at work. Perfect, I thought, envisioning neatly expressing breast milk in my dressing room in between interviews with the prime minister, doing cooking demonstrations and chatting to the latest reality television stars.

  Logically and calmly I explained to anyone who looked like asking that I would organise a ‘night nanny’ to care for the baby while I snuck out before dawn to work while Peter kept up his travelling commitments for 60 Minutes. My sister, who already had a son and a second child on the way, sensibly stayed quiet.
Mum also knew not to get into a debate with me about the practicalities of such an arrangement. My detailed plan of action tried to hide the sense of unease I still had about my job security. I needed to stay in control. There is a saying ‘never take holidays when you work on television’, because the person filling in for you will become your full-time replacement.

  As I waved goodbye to viewers on my last show before going on maternity leave, with six weeks until I was due, I told them all that I would see them again soon. However, a part of me wasn’t confident; my fill-in was the stunning supermodel Sarah Murdoch, who also happened to be married to Lachlan Murdoch. And as I drove past the security gatehouse at Channel Nine and waved at the guards after the show, I wondered if it would be for the last time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Impatiently I snatched the immaculately wrapped present off the kitchen bench, putting it under my arm as I struggled to put down the plastic shopping bags full of pasta, Twisties, yoghurt and white chocolate. Peter and I were renting a holiday house on the South Coast, overlooking a beach with the whitest sands in the world. The present had been left by the owners, and I quickly pulled off the brightly coloured ribbon and ripped open the teddy bear–patterned paper.

  ‘Look, Petee! It’s a kids’ book, ohhh and it’s called Guess How Much I Love You,’ I gushed.

  ‘How thoughtful of those lovely people,’ Peter said as he struggled to bring in my overfull bags of clothes, beach towels and bikinis from the car.

  The book told of Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nutbrown Hare’s efforts to explain the love they have for each other. I conveniently ignored that it was a large male rabbit and his baby boy rabbit and decided to use female pronouns when I read the story out loud. I was still hoping for a little girl, although I kept that wish to myself. The book’s catchphrase—‘I love you right up to the moon and back’—was enough to have me crying happy tears when I read the book most mornings on the wooden balcony. Wearing only a pink polka-dotted bikini, I let the summer sun toast me and my swelling stomach. Purple stretch marks had spread across my bottom and the top of my thighs. These were my body’s songlines and I celebrated the way it was expanding to make room for my baby. I couldn’t take my eyes off my huge showgirl boobs! Becoming a C cup was very exciting for a girl who had struggled to fill a double A bra size for her adult life. My husband was also excited by my growing cleavage, but I had zero sex drive. So much for the articles he kept showing me, explaining how women had more interest in sex once they were pregnant.

  Specks of bright white sunlight danced off the book’s pages as I reached for another packet of Twisties. Before turning the page, I wiped my fingers on my red towel, careful to avoid getting orange stains on the story book. Milano, my 34-week baby, was doing full gymnastic routines in my tummy. Perhaps she was reaching out to the rays of sunshine or the sound of my voice as I read aloud, or maybe it was my bright orange breakfast that was getting her moving.

  Sighing, I moved my legs and felt the buzzy adrenaline that had kept me alive this past year slowly start to seep out from my shoulders, tickling down to my fingers and toes. Getting up, I pulled a white cotton kaftan over my bikini before walking down the rough wooden steps that had been cut into the beach cliff. Jumping off the final step onto the beach, I smiled as I looked out to the waves breaking onto the rock pool. Just past the waves, some snorkellers kept disappearing from view as they dived down to check out the Port Jackson sharks hiding in the kelp. Walking along the beach was more my speed, each step I took on the powdery, squeaky sand shedding more of the tightness from my body. This coastline had been a constant in my life, a place I had come to as a teenager, a twenty-something upstart, a world-weary but naive single woman, a newlywed, a married woman heartbroken over IVF failures, and now here I was back again, pregnant. I looked behind and saw how the sun caught my damp footprints, leaving a silvery snail trail in my wake.

  One lazy afternoon at the beach house my mobile rang, and I was surprised to hear Eddie McGuire’s voice on the other end.

  ‘Don’t worry, we miss you!’ he said jovially.

  ‘Um, really?’ I replied.

  ‘I understand that feeling when you see someone else doing your job. It’s going to be alright.’ Only the day before there had been a newspaper article trumpeting the success of Sarah Murdoch in my role as co-host.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ I said goodbye and hung up, touched and a little dazed by the call. Looking back, I wondered if he’d called because he knew he would soon be leaving his CEO role at the network. Or perhaps Eddie understood that being on television meant you had a fragile ego and needed reassurance.

  We reluctantly left the beach house and headed back to Sydney as my due date got closer. Reality was rushing towards me: no longer would it just be Peter and me, soon there would be three of us. I spent most of January holed up in icy air-conditioned cinemas consuming films and choc tops. When I was not at the movies I was lying on our couch, feet up, flicking through crappy magazines. My hospital bag stayed next to the front door, packed with all the items that had been listed in my pregnancy bible, Robin Barker’s book Baby Love. My sister Harriet, already a mum, also suggested I pack some large underpants for after the birth. Unsure why but too nervous to ask, I took her advice and packed ten pairs of size-sixteen black Bonds undies.

  On 18 January 2007, shortly after midnight, I was woken by a growing pressure in my abdomen. This was it! Surprisingly though, I fell back asleep for a few hours. Around five o’clock in the morning I woke again.

  ‘Peter, I’m having our baby!’ I said, shaking him awake.

  ‘What, now? Let’s go!’

  ‘Let’s ring the hospital first,’ I said.

  A few minutes later I was through to the birthing unit at the Prince of Wales hospital. ‘Hello, yes, my name is Jessica, Jessica Rowe, and I’ve gone into labour.’

  ‘How far apart are your contractions?’ asked the midwife at the other end of the line.

  ‘I don’t know, but my waters haven’t broken yet.’

  ‘Okay, we’ve got your details here. I’ll get in touch with your doctor, but for now, time your contractions. Put a pad in, so you know when your waters have broken, and come in a few hours.’

  ‘What do you mean “a few hours”?’

  ‘About ten o’clock,’ said the midwife.

  My waters broke around eight in the morning and I got into the shower to distract myself. By then the contractions were coming strongly, the flicker and flutter of butterflies I had been feeling inside for months replaced by a pterodactyl, pushing and shoving to get out. I had to keep moving to cope with the growing pain. Each time I lay down a feeling of panic began to break over me. I had to get up to prepare myself for the wave of pressure that was crashing down onto my pelvic floor.

  I paced around the house, all sorts of odd sounds coming out of my mouth as each contraction hit. ‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, aaaaaaaah!’ I was wearing down a path around the dining room table. Peter came close, trying to touch my shoulder, but I shrugged him away. My focus was becoming more inward as I concentrated on each contraction. It was still not ten o’clock but I couldn’t wait any longer and told Peter to get me to the hospital.

  Every speed bump, every turn, every stop at every goddamn red light hurt as the waves came closer and closer together. All I could focus on now was the voice of the commentator on the talkback radio station. ‘Don’t turn that off!’ I snapped at Peter. The short drive to the hospital had become the longest and bumpiest car trip of my life.

  When we arrived at the hospital Peter and I were taken to a birthing suite and I put on a loose t-shirt. I had been fixated on what to wear and whether or not I was going to poo during labour. But I quickly discovered I didn’t care what I wore and ended up naked pretty quickly. And there was far too much going on to think about the poo issue!

  The doctor examined me and said I was already five centimetres dilated. Hooray! Only five centimetres to go. The midwife suggested I get into the
bath, which was a wonderful idea, the warm water making me feel safely cocooned in a liquid world.

  ‘I love you, I love you, I love you so much,’ I said, holding my husband’s hand as, in my delirious mind, we once again exchanged our wedding vows. Peter could not keep his hand still as he held mine, moving them up and down together. The crashing of the waves at Bondi Beach matched the crashes of pain that were rolling through my body. Suddenly the music of The Cure seeped into my head and I was dancing, spinning, flicking my long blonde hair on the dance floor at Reds nightclub in Rose Bay, my black and white midriff top showing off my smooth, tanned stomach. And then I suddenly became a mind reader: I knew what Peter was about to say, I knew what Megan, the midwife, would say. I had become the smartest person in the world, with the most incredible psychic ability! Through the haze I heard the midwife asking me if I needed to push.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I do!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Let’s get you out of this bath then. It’s time to have your baby.’ Megan’s words snapped me from my trippy moment. I was naked, strong—and stoned on happy gas.

  Peter and Megan helped me onto the table. ‘I’d like to have an epidural now,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no time for that, you’re about to have a baby!’ the midwife laughed.

  Time seemed to stop; there was no more gentle crashing of waves and mind reading, just work, hard work. It felt like it would never end. I would have a little rest between each contraction and then push down; the burning sensation was excruciating. All I could do was focus on the midwife’s voice and listen to her instructions. The doctor arrived and told me he could see my baby’s dark hair.

  ‘I can see the head!’ said Peter.

  ‘Is there hair? What can you see?’ I asked.